Skaios Sophos
by DiedInMarseilles
Summary: An epic poem. A novel-in-verse. A sci-fi dystopia.
1. Book One

BOOK ONE

Among the acolytes the temple held

There was one quiet women not compelled

To twist her face with fear—or hide the tears

That swelled her red-rimmed eyes—or plug her ears

Against the heated words the Papas preached—

Her hard-set face, alone, could not be breached.

While others let that outside force affect

Them like their heart, Sophia Sophos checked

Each muscle, froze each limb, and calmed her soul

To offer up the only show of cool control.

The brilliance of the altar's fire, though,

Exposed a flaw which acted as a blow

To her composure: Worry worked in lines

Around her eyes and down her cheeks. These signs

Of age transformed her youth into the traits

Of one who's crushed beneath the weights

Which smother first her flesh, then smother, too,

Her flesh's flesh: The Grieving Mother. Through

And through, her face was let of blood—it paled—

Her native island's crop, the olive, failed,

Which was the color of her normal, healthy hue.

For her to seem to only have a few

Good years remaining was a dreadful wrong.

She smiled in youthful gladness, not that long

Ago—it was her decaversary—

Her third. Yet now that recent revelry

She thought of as a time belonging to

Another life. All thought was now askew

Due to the war, in fact. And no one had

Her thinking more distressed—from sane to mad,

From cheerfulness to melancholy—than

Sophia had. She used to closely scan

The beauties, every one, which caught her eye—

No matter what coercions tried to pry

Her faithful gaze away. She studied them,

Despite the time it took, from leaf to stem—

Then change her stance to study them once more.

Each image found was brought into a store,

Where each could be re-lived, -loved, at a thought.

Yet even these indulgences, which ought

To have contented her, were not enough—

She had to, too, develop, from the rough

Vocabulary men have thus far built,

A modern language—beauty's tongue—a lilt

Unheard of previous—a tenor all

Together new—imparting, thus, the thrall

These stirrings-of-the-soul had over her.

This was her genuine way to deter

Time's bleeding out—she was the gauze, she held

The life-pulse.

War, though, was a pressure which propelled

Her life along expressly through the speed

Of suffering—too quickly for her need

To be fulfilled, her vital need for beauty,

For beauty's thoughts and words. She was abruptly

Swept from the rains which fed her blooming mind.

In war's oppressive winds, she was resigned

To only speculate and grieve. She stooped

To thinking: _Has the Papas' new sway duped_

_Us into bringing back the old reigme?_

_Have we been led into our own cruel past? _

_What prejudices will he resurrect?_

_Who'll be alive when peace, at last, returns? _

And: _Do we have the means within ourselves_

_To conjure worthier tomorrows? How,_

_Then, do we vaccinate our weary world_

_With beauties, lost without but born within?_

The war then flashed another gristly grin,

Inciting further questions, burning doubt—

Another numbing, thoughtless, silent drought

Of comfort and of answers followed as before.

At other times, more harried by the war

And its mad rush, she found herself estranged

From wisdom, crying plainly: _Everything has changed!_

For one, the temple looked abandoned from

The high, sand pews—where the Elected, dumb

But writhing, sat—than from the pulpit where

The congregation used to dance its prayer.

In that remembered time, the moon's cool gleam

Would float, as effortlessly as a dream,

In through the temple's lack of roof, and paint

The craggy walls. The air was clean—the faint

Illumination charming—every heart

As open as a lover's arms. The start

Of their communal perturbations came

When, overhead—as if to hide their shame—

A plaster roof was built one afternoon—

The Papas bellowing the orders. Soon

The world recoiled, abandoned—hearts, parched, shrank

Back from the altar's smoke—the fire drank

The charm, disfiguring the living rock—

All stared: from sadness, outrage, terror, horror, shock.

And for another: In each inmate's face

An alteration could be seen. In place

Of cheerfulness, which she recalled to be

The norm, she now discerned complacency

And gravity and nausea and fear

When at its ebb, when at its least severe,

The altar's fire merely madly glowed.

When at its raging flood, its brightness showed

The graphic overexposure of these

Perversions, each a mask of some disease—

Anxiety and Hypochondria,

And Dysthymia, Melancholia—

From which her thriving eyes shrank back in hope

Of fighting off infection. Hard to cope

With seeing friends transfigured into fiends—

Yet it was harder still to find the means

To keep the reins of her composer taut.

Her eyes performed the deed her body fought

Against—they searched the temple for a trace

Of the familiar—none was found in that cramped space.

The lightning march of twisted faces made

Sophia's mind a dizzy mess, which preyed

Upon her sober thought, removing it

Beyond her grasped, which forced her to submit

To black unthinking. Yet this proved to be

A cure for reason's vertigo. A spree

Of feeling, cleansed of bothered thinking's tinge,

Produced, from somewhere far—the outer fringe,

Perhaps the bottom of her soul—a calm,

The coolest yet, which acted as a balm

To soothe her hurting, overheated brain.

Her faculty discharged against war's pain—

Like sight renewed, accustomed to the dark,

Her thinking-beauty shot and struck its mark:

_To lay out beauty's bloodless victory;_

_Display love's final triumph over war;_

_Exhibit what our fluid minds create—_

_To sing it! Draw it! Share it! Act it out!_

_O World—These are the words to our duet,_

_The means to give to you in giving's wake,_

_The disinfectant cleaning war's offense! _

_It is a reoccurring birth from scores_

_Of mothers: Beauty, naked, coming on_

_And on, sublimely, glorious, from minds—_

_From everywhere—from we the living, we_

_Together—our community is all! _

She found, at last, her shelter from the squall

That disarrayed all life, beneath the waves

Of a fluidity of thought where raves

Desire and caring in one growing corps,

And where no war could move its currents, for

That image of a hardy, human world

Was fixed within her mind. Her sight still swirled

When, next, she opened wide her eyes to seek

Those fellow lovers who could scorn their bleak

Reality and help her catch the mists

Of better fates, wherein love coexists

With tolerance and beauty, filling in

Tomorrow's sea in which all human kin

Could deluge war. While inspiration stirred

Her blood, she battered passed the masks incurred

Through the conformity the others backed—

She scoured for the sense their faces lacked,

Examining their spirits through their eyes.

In vain. She sought but failed to find the prize

Of someone, like her, bodily acute

Yet willing given proper care, like fruit

Prepared to ripen with the coming rain.

Those aired grotesqueries did not contain,

However, injured people underneath,

They were the bloodless faces blanched beneath

An unrelenting sun—the living dead!

Defeated—twice!—her eyes stilled in her head—

They lowered to a plot of ground and stared,

Reflecting, neutrally, the fire as it flared.

Her fortified imagination eased

Its barricades—the Papas' preaching seized

This opportunity to infiltrate.

And as his words began to dominate

Her heart, his sparks like _duty_, _faith_, and _law_

Ignited her into a blaze. To draw

Another calm and douse these flames seemed too

Laborious a chore for her to do

With all the burning she now suffered from.

She weakly fought so as not to succumb

To the febrility assured with such

A fire's kindling. This goal, with much

Anticipation, too, could not be gained—

For now the Papas solemnly explained

His next offensive. It was as she feared—

He uttered _…human sacrifice_—hope disappeared.

—These words have made you jump, my children? Why?

Why should a word, for instance _human_, make

You jump? It's true that being human is

A low and woeful way of life—but it's

A limitation which we deal with day

To day. I know you feel the _heaviness_

Of flesh, its weight upon you, crushing you.

I know you feel its _seeming_ transience.

I know you, too, my children, even _you_—

Yes, even the Elected—feel the need,

The urge, the pressure to anesthetize

Yourselves in order to escape life's gloom.

You drink intoxicants. You swallow rich

Cuisine. You search out sensuous delights

To fool the human brain that glooms like death

Will not be what awaits you at the end

Of life. My children, death is not _your_ end.

You're spirits. That is _who _you are, your true

Identity, your proper form. And when

You _listen_ to our Lord, our Father, the

Elector, _hear_ what he is telling you—

Each day, each minute, every second—then

You _know_ you are not what you have on loan—

You're _not_ your human bodies. When you _fool_

Yourselves into believing that you are,

Then you, my children, are not listening

To Him—you're minding your own ego. Shame!

The _ego_? Ego understands what's trite,

What's human—yet knows nothing of the truth.

Then why should you believe his lies? It is

The ego's lie that there is only one

World! It's the ego's lie that happiness

Is found on earth! It is the ego's lie

That you are mortal, worthless, _human_! If

You're listening to what the Lord has said,

And what He keeps on saying to you, then

You'd know that all that's _human_ is a trap.

It is a coffin. It's a millstone tied

Around your neck. It is an obstacle

Between you and the Lord's Elysium!

And _who_ has set it there to frustrate you?

The ego has! Who doesn't want to be

Relieved of such a weight? Who's ready to

Submit his weight, his weighty _human_ flesh,

Into this fire? _You_ would do so—_you,_

My children, the Elected—_you_ would do

So just like _that_—without a selfish thought!

—If _human_ shouldn't make you jump, then is

It _sacrifice_ that scares you? How could such

A word be frightening? The fact that you

Are the Elected is a sacrifice—

It is a cutting out of all that is

Conflicting with the standards of your class.

Or is there something you are clinging to—

A certain something you're not ready yet

To cast into the flames? You want to keep

Your goods, perhaps? What earthly _thing_ will you

Require in the Lord Elector's bliss?

Those _things_ that make you happy now are toys,

Which you will gladly leave behind, as when

You left behind your toys of childhood

When you became adults. You want to keep

Your family, perhaps? What disciplined

Person won't follow you when you sojourn

To the Elector's home? If there is one

Such person you're familiar with, who, like

A willing patient, welcomes his disease—

Who welcomes his _humanity_!—then how

Is he a member of _your_ family?

No brother will remain in his sickbed

When the Elector calls! You want to keep

Your consciousness, perhaps? Is that your wish—

To hold onto the _self_? You'll gain much less,

My children, by retaining something so

Imperfect, so inconsequential, than

You will receive by _sacrificing _self

To the Elector. If eternal bliss

Is what's at stake, why not do all you can?

Why _not _give up your time as sacrifice?

Why _not_ give up your strength as sacrifice?

Why _not _give up your wealth as sacrifice?

Why _not_ give up your self as sacrifice?

—Perhaps it's not the words themselves, but the

Idea that makes you jump—is _that_ it? Does

The concept _human sacrifice_

Disturb you? Silly children! It's a rite

Amongst our oldest. Do you really fear

Our laws—the Lord's donation to mankind?

Our laws—the pulse which keeps our faith alive!

Our laws—the cure which treats this sickly world!

Our laws—the shield and sword to fight the Lord's

Ignoble foes and manifest his cause!

You jump at _this_, my children? If that's so,

Then all the sadder—all the more _profane_!

Your fear betrays a fault within your hearts—

For there has never been a fault in laws

So hallowed, so _divine_, as those the Lord

Has given us. You do not know the law

In its entirety. You do not know

The oldest rituals. You do not know

That better epoch which was closer to

The Lord. You do not know that golden age

Now over, which once spread throughout all space.

My shameful children—you are ignorant!

No _wonder_ prophets called this age the Age

Of Quarrel! You are plagued with who knows what

_Abominations_! And you only have

Your ignorance to thank! You've brought this war

Upon _yourselves_! It is a test of faith

Our Lord has sent to you who are so far

Removed from his ideal—a test which you

Are failing! But, you're wrong to think that all

Is lost. My children, you are _far_ from lost.

You only have your squeamishness to best,

Which keeps you from embracing sacrifice—

You only have to _learn_ those ancient rites,

Now more important than they've ever been—

You only have to _learn again_ our laws

If any part of them have slipped your mind—

You only have to learn to loose your grip

On life, and when you _know_ the hopelessness

Of holding on to something not your own,

You'll give up to the Lord what's His, and He

Will shine His light on your benighted state!

—The time to act is _now_. If you still need

To contemplate the plight at hand, you've _lost_

Your opportunity! The shadow of

Our enemy has fallen over us.

Will this mean our faith's _end_? Or will we bring

About _another_ golden age? The choice

Is yours to make. You must be ready. No—

You're ready _now_! You're poised to do your part,

To undertake your obligated tasks.

For those who shirk their tasks, there's Tartarus!

You know this—it is none of _your_ concern,

For you will _act_ now that the time has come.

The sons of darkness, likewise, lay in wait

To kill your bodies and corrupt your souls!

You know this, _too_—and you're indifferent!

You are prepared to fight and _die_! Let good

Or awful consequences come! You have

No thought for either one, because you are

Performing what the Lord has ordered you

To carry out. Since you are working with

The Lord Elector as your model—with

His home your only craving—with

Achieving the Elector as your goal,

You never can do wrong! You're free of fear,

Of ego, selfishness, of ignorance—

You've sacrificed to the Elector, and

He will repay you in his other world!

—My children, leave me now to implement

My last command: This recompense the Lord

Has planned for you must be the focus of

Your nightly meditation. You will dream

Of it tonight, no doubt—but watch as with

The dawn, this dreamt-of rapture will become

Reality! For then the _human _war—

Not simply man against his foes, or one

Idea against another, but the soul

Against its earthly prison!—will be, one

Way or another, over in a flash!

No other voice replied, as if the ash

The altar spewed had choked the faithful mute.

The Papas turned devoutly to salute

The fire and the God within. The sound

Of rustling from the grasses worn around

His middle as he knelt and calmly prayed—

The gentle sighs his feathered headdress made

With every bow—the fire's scornful roar—

All marked the time to rise up from the floor

And exit, which the congregation did.

They lumbered out, spaced well apart. They hid

Their devastation by diverting—there,

Abruptly here—their faces, looking where

They knew they'd never see the built-up fear

And towering despair they could not clear

Which showed beneath the bloodless features of their friends.

Sophia trembled. Having reached the ends

Of, first, her tolerance to withstand pain—

Her muscles ached from her attempts to feign

Command—and, secondly, of her once great

Capacity for turning woe and hate

Around until these system's flaws were plain,

Then harnessed and reworked them into gain.

But one more ounce of sorrow's pressure or

One potent, wounding disappointment more

And she'd have perished. As it was, she stood

With difficulty, swaying as a wood

Tormented by a gale. Had there been

A real-life storm, she would have wished her skin,

Her muscles, fibers, nerves, her bones, her heart,

her soul and self to break up and depart

With such insistent winds. She did not think

That she could freely move, pulled from the brink

Of action—ever farther from that verge—

By what the Papas said, which dammed the urge

To hope and bring about hope's genius acts.

She drew a drink—with energy that lacks

The liquid foresight into consequence—

Of memory, which cured the negligence

Of self-defeat. Before her now: (A grace

Imagination blessed her with!) the face

Of Skaios sleeping in his crib. Her son

Imposed upon the Papas' fire won

Her motivation of too great a force—

Unable to meander from her course,

She ran and crashed, as one without her sight,

Into her former friends, to reach, with sighs, the night.


	2. Book Two

BOOK TWO

A cutting wind came screeching, like a bird

Of prey, from heaven down on the deterred

Elected and their island home. It blew

So hard, so judge's gavel hard, it threw

Up waves, now foamy white, throughout the black

Surrounding sea, which set down with a smack

Each ploios of the famed Elector's Fleet

They lifted up into the air. Their neat

Arrangement, pointing to, with artfulness,

The temple at the island's heart, was now mere mess.

The congregation cowered as it left

The temple's portal—doubled by the heft

The heaven's current heaped on ever head;

Upset by how it cut through every thread

To bite into the human skin beneath—

It pulled on hair, stung eyes, and rattled teeth.

Despite their individuality

All felt the wind's superiority—

The teary-eyed cried harder from the blast;

The dry-eyed wept to join them as a single caste.

Sophia Sophos felt this stinging too—

Eventually. But first, what jolted through

Her body, what had kept her senselessly

In motion was the wretchedness to see

Her son again, to see him safe and sound.

No other stimulus could reach her downed

Capacities, not while she ran. It took

A gust which pulled her, like a bishop's hook

Around her neck, down to the ground to shift

Her overactive mind, too long adrift

In its maternal dreams, to what she felt

Just then, there in the dirt path where she knelt:

Fatigue within—a torturer without.

She could not stand again, so plagued throughout

Her body by the ache of overuse—

So she collapsed. Her stirred-up gut let loose

Its contents—her head lowered—her eyes closed.

Completely emptied, she was now disposed

To feel the power of the wind and view

Its dominance in action as it blew

Above her in the rooftops' reeds, before

Her in the swaying shrubs. _Do they implore_

_Me with their suffering? Are they in pain?_

_Is this a mundane buffeting for them? _

_Have they been mired on a pilgrimage_

_To somewhere far more beautiful than we_

_Have ever found or lost or been lead to? _

_Are they thus animated to be free?_

_Are these attempts to flag us down for help?_

_Are these the gestures of a warning friend?_

_Or random mayhem set off by the wind?_

The others walked, not paying any mind

To her or to the plants' abuse, divorced,

First off, from one another through the forced

Withdrawal they each effected; secondly,

If every eye that stared straight emptily

Was any sign, they found themselves detached,

Too, from the truths their minds abortively dispatched.

Still trembling, Sophia stood. She braced

Herself against the whipping wind that chased

All tenderness and tolerance away—

The world was in a startling array,

One new and altogether out of joint

From her preceding, swirling vantage point.

She saw, in one direction, narrowing

Her eyes, the true size of their tiny ring

Of land which bounded the Elected, like

A fettering, unfinished truth. _A dike_

_To bar us from the oceanic most—_

_To keep a greater truth from flooding in_

_And burying this meager coast of ours. _

_A glimpse into a further-reaching world _

_And access to expanding knowledge are _

_Beyond our reach—we've been cut off from these!_

_We have been slashed and hacked!—the victims of_

_A soulful vivisection! Nature is_

_The cancer which the sharpened scalpel called_

_Modernity has bloodily removed;_

_While war has purified our love for man;_

_And fear has checked the epidemic self. _

_We ought to thank our masters for this health!_

She turned, and faced the temple, without stealth—

Her knees unbent, her chin thrown back, her gaze

Now wide and chilled into an icy blaze.

_How can one single structure shrink our scope_

_And harm the soul?_ she thought, and now could cope

With her religion's building tyrannies

By delving deep within herself—past pleas

Her weaker, learned, forgiving thoughts invoked—

Deep down into an unrest which revoked

The chance to bridge the ever-swelling sea

Between that building's deathly love and she.

_It is a solitary edifice,_

_A tree amongst a world-expanded wood_

_Presenting one acidic fruit while more—_

_Some sweeter, some far more sustaining, some_

_More quickening—are always set before _

_One at the banquet of humanity. _

_And yet we're taught it is the only source_

_Of life and that which fuels it to endure—_

_Of safety in a terror-stricken world—_

_Of the key template mapping out our lives._

_A fear of losing life has satisfied _

_Us this is so, for we have held our tongues_

_While it assumed the power it now holds. _

_It is the temple's broadcasts which dictate_

_Our living's every action—chooses who_

_We are and who we're not to marry—and_

_Decides what we should give up to its cause._

_And why have we agreed to this for years_

_On years?—The temple dwellers know in which_

_Direction eudemonia is reached!_

_But why assume that happiness is there_

_Somewhere, a goal, from where the holy call _

_Us home? Why can't it be the path that leads _

_Us back upon itself repeatedly?— _

_The tides and currents of an active life_

_Which carry on by forces all their own, _

_Designing only forms their energies_

_Erratically and honestly produce—_

_Why can't it be our independent course? _

_There is a second lesson taught behind_

_Those unassuming walls. If fear of death_

_And of a joyless life were not enough—_

_For some might risk a gloomy walk to try_

_The forking, virgin path—they also press_

_Guilt onto every heart the instant it _

_Diverges from the dusty norm. Each step,_

_Endorsed by nature and necessity,_

_We take becomes the next day's sermon's theme,_

_Until, at last, an independent act_

_Is rendered purely nominal—as now!_

_But unlike ghostly worry, guilt's effect_

_Can't be dismissed. It is a working plough,_

_And in its wake we see a desert stretch_

_Till sight breaks off; we dip our hands into_

_A pool, but throw the water back as sand_

_Before it can relieve our blistered lips;_

_The unforgiving sun intrudes on us,_

_Although we're poised and cool within the shade. _

_No life is safe from this induced waste's heat._

_Those few who see through its illusions are_

_Uncommonly imaginative, for_

_Most have assumed its actuality_

_And burn. The thoughtful's cherished ones _

_Are these—thus overlooking their distress_

_Constructs the phantom desert solidly—_

_And so through sympathy, he burns as well. _

_The other route that could elude guilt's snare_

_Is no less perilous—perhaps its traps_

_Are hungrier. It is a path down which_

_A salted earth consumes the fertile soul,_

_And hate—through looks, without an acting hand—_

_Kills every thriving bud of life in sight. _

_Where is the route to freedom which does not _

_Detour through cynicism nor through hate? _

She then repeated _Where?_ till, quite sedate

Again, she stumbled on.

But whereas numbness drove

Her heavy slanting steps before, she strove

Preoccupied now with a groggy hope

That she could apprehend the hazy slope

That slept before her—that provoking Thought-

Shape which possessed the power that she sought

To reestablish beauty in a hard,

Dogmatic world, and which could be unbarred,

Could _only_ be unbarred, by forging the

Unheralded direction to which she

Flowed naturally, obeying the demands

Of her heart's compass's recondite hands.

As how to live the life that would wake such

A shape was still beyond her mind's numbed touch,

However, she walked clumsily, as if

Relearning how to walk, with those as blind, as stiff.

Without her knowing it, a pair of eyes

Did seek and follow her without disguise—

Uncaught, not criticized, allowed to leer

Without a legal check or a social jeer,

For these were times that lacked community.

Thus through the islanders' disunity,

The eyes of Nomos Rilla closely stalked

Sophia's movements. She had always balked

His love's advances, sending back his heart

That struck out with his words—a hunter's dart

That came back clean and empty of its meat.

His mantelpiece remained, thus, incomplete

Without a wife, and such a glaring blank,

A blow against his manhood, made it rank

Among the most frustrating obstacles

He faced. His life was free of refusals

Which would explain why, in spite of his fame,

His prowess and his wealth, the haunting shame

Of this one spurning couldn't be dismissed.

He often vented: _Why does she insist_

_On wearing out her beauty as a maid,_

_When she could be an Archon's worshipped wife?_

_What is it she denies me for?—Not means,_

_Not property, and not security!_

Through a passed window's sleek obscurity

He saw his features murkily thrown back,

And froze there for a moment to attack

The foolish, startled face that met his gaze

By lowering his brow to mask the daze,

By tautening the slackened lower jaw,

And, to allow the upper's horsey flaw

To disappear, by clenching closed his lips.

Now, with the force with which a canine grips

His quarry's throat, he rapidly pursued

Her steps, as rapidly as his mind cued

The truly humbling procession of

Sophia's calm rejections of his love.

What blew his anger into blustering,

However—what took all his mustering

To keep the barking hate she bred at bay—

Was her—_so unlike the Elected's way!_—

Politeness, her composure, her serene

Expression, as if half within a dream,

She donned to simply speak that single word,

And nothing further: —No. It was absurd

To Rilla. _No, she said, just no—without _

_The public reprimand of character_

_Before the congregation? I deserve _

_That much, at least. For then I'd know, I'd know_

_With certainty, why she is obdurate_

_Enough to stay a working girl. But she_

_Forgoes all of our customs, it would seem. _

_Tonight she scarcely comes across as an_

_Elected. Never would a wife of mine_

_Be authorized to leave our home without_

_Her hair bound, resting to one side—_

Sophia's free locks looked as though they tried

To reach the night whose inky shade they shared—

_Nor would she walk about, as _she_ has dared,_

_In fabrics other than our island's own. _

Here Rilla's stodgy orthodoxy shown

More candidly, for many, if not most,

Had fully borrowed from the Trues the ghost-

White robes Sophia wore. Their influence

On the Elected was far more immense

Than Rilla, taking it for granted, thought.

_But still it isn't right! I know we're taught_

_That celebrating decaversaries _

_In imitation of the Trues is fine—_

_But now, in wartime, to be casual_

_About such things seems blasphemous to me!_

_It's sick that anyone would willingly _

_Appear more like the enemy, in looks_

_In actions, and in thought, than one's own kind!_

Thus as a doctor tracks the signs to find

The source of the disease, he—resolute,

As long as his lungs functioned, to uproot

Her plague—pursued her to the island's suburb's sprawl.

Sophia found herself behind a wall

Of homes, which twisted with the snaking lanes,

Where she no longer bore the tempest's pains

But could observe its work above her head.

She felt a first-born sympathetic dread

For those still bullied by the ruthless blast,

Yet felt, a younger sibling of that last,

Relief as well—a troubled sweetness known

To those who, while her siblings suffer, prone

To loss, survive the selfsame agony.

Still living as she watched the reeds, the designee

Of the maltreatment of the wind, she filled

Her heart with self-earned hope, distilled

By life-awareness, which dissolved the bars

Religion's worries built, a jail that mars

The flowing of the mind. Its waters now

Had no such dam. It almost stunned her how

Intensely keen her thinking had become.

She realized that: _Happiness is dumb,_

_A thoughtless state in which I may exist _

_But in which I could never truly live. _

_It's studied suffering which speaks the heart's_

_Vernacular, which focuses my lust,_

_Which sharpens, like a pencil's lead, my thoughts. _

_This means that happiness alone can't be_

_My destiny, nor suffering alone _

_The target of my rage. My goal must be _

_A self-created living only bound _

_By my own boundless mind. And what about_

_My mighter-than-sword? What ink will slake_

_Its thirst? Not solely guilt, for it would still_

_Desire to swallow guilt, its brother hate, _

_And still their father God. My pen, if it_

_Is to subdue the whole, it must be poised upon _

_A something-else, a hydra-headed lord_

_That I will christen Mitheosochi—_

_A wound whose pain is constantly relearned;_

_A labor shorn of its reward; a book _

_Deprived of print; a child without his soul!_

_He is the sentence passed down to us from _

_On high—the winds that the Elector sends _

_To bend us forward into kneeling, while_

_The Papas burns our bodies with his heat_

_He kindles in our minds and in our soul. _

_So…freedom then is what? Rebellion? No!_

_Uncultured revolution leads around _

_To that same state it means to rectify—_

_It's bloodshed paving bloodshed's path. Our kings_

_Are those who benefit the most because_

_Of revolutionary violence._

_It reinforces the authority _

_They long to hold, for now they're justified _

_In executing their disastrous _

_Agendas in the name of specious peace._

_Throw stones and you'll have built a monument_

_To further glory Mitheosochi—_

_But live the life which does not fit into _

_Your lord's agendas, spread your novel life _

_To others like a hail of rounds, and you _

_Will have created something worthier _

_To man than any of his cities full_

_Of towers and of spires—you will have _

_Created Chaos! Not the lawlessness_

_That those in power relish, savoring_

_The punishments that follow, but a new _

_Primordial, a new abstraction—one_

_From which a better portrait of mankind,_

_No matter how beyond the skill of live _

_Producers of such artworks it might be,_

_Could possibly be done and treasured by _

_A loving audience who would not let _

_It leave its side till death undid the bond. _

_But what can we do when that violence _

_Is perpetrated first, with weapons whose _

_Harm no amount of paint can beautify?_

_Can we create more than can be destroyed?_

_What monstrous energy would _that_ require?_

A thatch of grasses, as if dried by fire,

Descended from a battered roof to touch

Down at Sophia's feet, she fancied, much

In the same way a bride's bouquet would land.

She, disinclined to, raised her eyes and scanned

The roof from which her flowers had be ripped—

Reversing death, a new hope from a crypt—

Then tried to further probe the sky. But while

She did so she could feel, again, the vile

Igniting stinging of the wind. She dropped

Her much-exploited eyes before they stopped

To value or anatomize a star,

And there beheld—her pain recalled but far,

Now, from her mind—the writings of the night,

In letters which she knew—if not by sight

Than by their energy—as all her own,

Upon the flowing substance which alone

Can birth, can animate, can soothe, can render life—!

—

Her thinking trespassed on by any strife,

No matter how inconsequential, meant

The fading of that text and what it leant

To her and her infusing soul. When she

Had reached her dwelling's door, she naturally

Forgot the message, as it was too true

For all known words. Its monstrous size outgrew

Her apprehension, simply, leaving in

Its pregnant passing—not the stale chagrin

Of having been abandoned by a truth

And greyly facing greyer death in youth—

But phosphorescence through the touch of its

Sublimity. Thus she…until her wits

Were nearly scolded clean white by the blaze

The hearth-fire harshly threw out, which waylays

Her gaseous thoughts the moment foot meets floor.

She charged against that rival light before

Addressing Cauda Nor, her spouse—a weak-

Chinned man with sandy, parted hair, a cheek

Devoid of blood, and eyes too wide to hide

His pliant soul—before she curled beside

The crib where Skaios slumbered even, she

Concealed that rude light, now a detainee

Behind a heavy, decorated screen.

As the fire's tyranny was neither seen

Nor felt, it was forgotten. In its place

A pageantry of shadows, at the pace

Of celebration, danced throughout the room,

Projected from the figures in costume

Artistically engraved upon the black

Metallic screen's façade. These charms brought back

A vestige of that dumb, sagacious calm

The night's report, which acted like a balm

To sooth Sophia's drying mind, had drenched

Her with. She felt relief, and so unclenched

Her teeth and hands, and, bending down to sing

A verse to Skaios, kissed his eyelids smiling.

Through this new darkness, Cauda's paleness glowed

In spectral ostentation, which bestowed

A hint of otherworldly reprimand

Upon the practiced panic he had planned

Expressing, answering Sophia's swift crusade

Against the light. He swallowed loudly, made

His preparations to instruct, upraised

A reassuring hand—but then was phased

Into inaction when Sophia sank

Into a chair beside the crib. He shrank

A little from this snubbing, with his arm

Still raised, his eyes now widened in alarm,

His breath caught in his throat—suspended till

Sophia spoke:

—I know its name now: What could kill

The sacred spirit of this cherished life.

I know its name: The power fierce enough

To damage the potential of a soul

Who's all potential. It is not a flock

Of enemies, with beaks and talons crossed.

It is a name: this: Mitheosochi.

It rules us so long as its name is called.

And there are two obnoxious voices who

Forever broadcast: MITHEOSOCHI!

Forever? Who are they to talk about

Forever? Nothing will endure that long—

How grateful to my soul I'm of that fact!

I know: The temple cannot last that long:

We give all bricks their purpose—we could swop

The Papas' fires for a soothing spring.

I know too: The Elector cannot last—

I predict his death in ten-years' time.

A name without a voice to speak it fades.

And at that nearing time the channel to

The universe will flow again, and two

Great seas will reconnect, and bounds will fall.

The one beyond our own will illustrate

Expansiveness (our fenced-in minds will reel!)—

While ours, with rallied love for brevity,

Will paint the weight of the essential NOW!

What better guard against the killing name?

What better guard could keep this child's soul?

What better guard is there than future art

Against the damaging Elector?—if

There ever was this being after all.

—What? Sophie, said her husband with a drawl,

You must be tired—do you even know

What you just said?

Sophia carried on as though

She had not heard her husband's whining doubt.

—If he is real—not _he_, but _it_ (I'll flout

All customs making god more like a man!)—

If _it_ is real than it is ruthlessness

Itself. Can any living body slip

Away from its monarchical control?

Can babes? Can Skaios? Can the mass of man?

Can one: has one: will anyone evade

The fate of being earthly built; the fate

Of being humanly at fault; the fate

Of being heavenly rebuked? We all—

The saddest family!—we all are taught

To venerate its hidden glory, and

To shun this glory of an earth before

Us; taught to hate the physical, the clay

That makes the self as much as we are taught

To hate clay that makes all other selves.

Taught to perfect knee-wounding penitence;

Taught patience toward the Papas, lunatics

Dissecting flesh from souls in order to

Prevent eternal pains, and taught to greet

Destruction at their hands, taught worship of

Untimely death, which, unlike mortal sleep,

Is deviate and no much-needed rest.

As Cauda gasped, he clutched his ghostly-wounded chest.

—If it is not as real as we were taught,

What of it then? Then it's a breeze which blew

And blows and someday will have blown its fill.

The Papas gives the breeze its bearing, like

The billows in a sail. What of it when

Its blowing ceases, and oppression's sails

Go limp? What of it then? What of our world

Then? What will change? Will it grow prone to shame?

Will it grow prone to degradation? It can't be

More prone to degradation than it is

Under the breezes nominal control.

Its nominal control allows campaigns

Of endless war, where innocents are killed

(the lucky ones!) or else they're put through hell.

Its nominal control allows the fear

Of other races, sexes, creeds, or selves

To run as freely wild as the wind.

Its nominal control—is anarchy!

If such misrule were thanks to god, then we

Are doomed—out-powered by a stronger arm.

If such misrule were thanks to chance, then we

Could fend annihilation off ourselves

Intelligently—we could sort out faith

From inactivity, from suicide!

We can reject it—what's a breeze to we

Who live? We can ignore it—like the name

Of Mitheosochi, unechoed, weak

And fading fast. We can outlive it—like

A trend. We can have hope beyond it—think

Of how a godless freedom could improve

Our sight—how many unseen beauties we

Could focus on without its glaring truths!

All this is some day's commonplace when we

Imagine it is so—imagine with

The unskilled deftness of a dreaming child.

Sleep on, my Beautiful, and dream of sights,

Of beauties, sweetness, of compassions not

Yet understood amongst us. For the worlds

Your mind imagines now, though nothing real

For us, will be your time's reality.

She watched the boy with the totality

Of her attention, resting, to one side,

Her heavy head. A smile broadened wide

Across her face, admiring the view

It seemed she had of sketches Skaios drew

Within his dreams of the tomorrows she

Could never know, could ever greet, could ever see.

There was a single knock, then, on the door.

Sophia rose. She slid across the floor

To answer it, not seeing Cauda's wave

Of warning—stiffly moving like a slave

To her unconscious actions, swimming still

Upon the sea-dream streamed from her son's will.

Such waters were drained instantly away

When she saw Rilla's eyes. These went astray

Around the room, and did not stop their hunt

Until they latched on Cauda—the affront

Of whose appearance knifed a gruesome smile,

Into the Archon's cheeks. Beyond the bile

Her spurning bred, he felt himself now filled

With an avenging second wind that stilled

All mercy for the faithless enemies

Who weakly stand against, like a disease

That stands against good health, his fatherland,

His temple and his Lord! His hate was fanned—

And he sprung into action with far more

Ferocity than ever had had felt before.

Sophia stained against the door she drove

At Rilla's face. His feet and hands both strove

And triumphed, hindering the door's lame latch—

It clicked like clacking teeth but failed to catch.

Meanwhile, in her lithe hands, the wild wood

Was as loose as those ships outside that stood

Against the winds and thus were tossed like toys.

She begged, between her breathlessness and noise

Of effort, Cauda to remove their son

To somewhere safer—if he couldn't run,

Than secret him behind the bedroom door.

These two were out of sight when, with a roar,

The Archon kicked the door Sophia then

Released—she knew she couldn't quell it when

She was so overwhelmed and terrified.

She cried out—pinned flat on the underside

Of the pushed-over door that shattered, in

Its course, a nearby pot—then checked her din,

When Rilla freed her with his foot, at what

Revenge was stabbing from his eyes to cut

Her to her heart! Tears came. That future hurt

Was felt as she lay there amongst the shards and dirt.

As Rilla pressed on toward his fallen prey,

He built himself into a tall display

Of confidence—his shoulders gracefully

Thrown back; his hard-set chin raised forcefully;

His droughty eyes emitting blinding spite;

His bloodless lips screwed up in vile delight.

His voice was equally commanding as

He spoke: —For crimes against our Lord, who has

Invested in me his retributive

Might, I— Sophia then began to give

His feet and shins a wave of stamps and kicks,

The suddenness of which forced him to mix

His ceremonial arrest address

With wordless feral bellows of distress.

These waned while his resistance hardened. Soon

Her frantic blows went wild—time opportune

For him to apprehend her. With his long

Arms locked outstretched he followed her along

The crawling route she took to shun his hold,

Which brought them, first, to where her son was holed

Up—but, as having lured the hunter to

The guarded chest where her heart's revenue

Was lovingly stored made Sophia sweat,

She floundered on, to where the screen was set,

And there, before the hearth, she finally

Ceased her escape, for, there, she luckily

Found arms to fend off her attacker—wood

Now spared the fire. Still confident, his good

Demonic mood unfazed, the Archon grinned

Away these make-shift clubs. He was chagrinned,

However, when the pointed end of one

Made contact with his temple. Like the sun

Turned black, his vision was encroached with dots—

The mold blown from a body as it rots—

Imparting chaos to the awkward fight

To find then talon both her wrists as tight

As possible. These crashing bodies hit

The fire-panel that, whenever it

Had dropped, barraged the room with hellish heat

And light too rampant for Sophia's fleet

Evasions to avoid. In deadening

All-whiteness she was captured—worsening

Her anguish, till the calming dark returned

With the closing of her eyes. She learned,

In that instructing black, to put her trust

In what she felt, to subtly adjust

Her arms so she could fish herself out of

His grip. By giving a full-body shove

To Cauda's kitchen table—crafting so

It fell artistically between her foe

And her own frantic self—Sophia, next,

Created the most daunting block that vexed

The Archon yet. She added, too, to this

The chairs—all four were thrown—they did not miss.

The last downed Rilla, who cried with a curse,

Allowing her the seconds to traverse

The floor's full length and gain again the gap

Where no door swung. This house was, thus, no trap

For her, and from it she, unshrinking, sought

Her freedom—gained through optimistic thought,

But lost in negative reality.

Mad, Rilla leapt up with finality,

Then tackling Sophia to her knees

Onto the floorboard's border—painful tease!—

Fought viciously to keep her from her goal

By pulling on her hair until a hole

Revealing scalp was made, by slapping closed

Her eyes, by banging shut her teeth. She nosed

Her shallow fits of breath while flailing one

Small arm and then the next—but both were won

By Rilla, who pinned them so palm kissed palm

Before her chest. By spreading—like a clam

Spread over demonstrating freedom fighters—

His body over, round hers with a spider's

Composure, he could ease her supine on

The ground. A freshened boldness was the spawn

Of this new mastery, with which he blocked

Her random, weak convulsions—she was locked

Within his unrelenting carnal jail.

The purpose of those dud blows did not fail

However—for they served well to distract

The would-be victor, ready to enact

Her punishment by tightening his grip

Around her—all but one arm she let slip

And snake away. He thrust—and this aligned

Their hips. He made a harder thrust—designed

To join their lips, which foundered when she jerked

Hers speedily away—but he reworked

His hold, which hollow dimples in her cheeks

And disallowed the sickened eye that seeks

Relief the chance to witness any sight

Except his stare, sufficient to excite

Her deepest waves nausea, which spewed

Now from between her puckered lips and glued

The Archon's hand in place. He thrust again—

But this time she, with the same strength as men,

Had matched his thrust, these two disparate zeals

Colliding midway with a pause. No peals

Of laughter, cries of triumph, nor was breath

Then heard—if it was not for trembling, death

Would have been any judge's common call.

Sophia was the first to break this stall,

Drawing back a potshard's dripping barb

From where his legs converged. His garb,

His hands, the floor, were all anointed by

The pouring wound he gravely cupped—but try

As he might couldn't dam. Sophia rose

Alert, emerging from her fetal pose

To view the damage she inflicted. Such

A sight of self-made horror was enough

To stir up her self-loathing, which now sent

A fire through her limbs without a vent

And made the shard still in her hand

Too hot with shame-heat for her to withstand.

She dropped it to the floor—her gaze came hard

Behind, for Rilla's bleeding torment jarred

Her heart. This was no escape from guilt,

However—there were eyes there that could wilt

The soul; a pair of grim eyes looking back,

Reflected in intense red, not quite black,

Upon the pool collected at her feet

From drops, like acid from a poisoned teat,

Descending from her still warm hands—her own!

Fear-sickness turned her fluid sense to stone

Again, resulting in her humbling

Herself by tripping, crashing, crying, fumbling!

As Cauda rocked the frightened Skaios in

His arms, he, first, perceived the fighting din

Subside, then, louder still, Sophia slam

Into the door. As such a violent ram

Was not repeated, but instead a weird

Peace followed, Cauda clicked the lock and peered

Outside. There was Sophia, dispossessed

Of self, her knees pulled tightly to her chest,

Emitting a low moan and swaying to

And fro. She gave no outward show she knew

Her husband when he softly called her name—

But after coaxing her, he overcame

Her passiveness and blanking memory,

Conducting her into the bedroom, free

Of any sign of fighting or of blood.

Instead, she saw her child—then the flood

Of happiness his smile brought. This healed

Her so astoundingly, as if revealed

In Scripture, so abruptly, like a flash

Of magic, so completely that the clash

Of who she was mere seconds passed and who,

She had since been reorganized into

Wreaked havoc throughout Cauda's reasoning.

The workings of her ever deepening

Mind, shown in her eyes; the way she held

Her head, the proof that she let her heart meld

Profoundly with another's; and the way

Her cheeks, as if her artist added clay,

Were now filled with a plumpness they, in truth,

Could not claim even in her tender youth—

All settled Cauda's judgment that before

Him stood a different person to her core,

Evolved in aura, spirit, body, and in mind.

She then passed into what appeared a trance

For several beats. Her features and her stance

Were statued—even while she ordered: —Take

The baby to your people. For his sake

I'll stay behind. That voice, ventriloquized

From where or whom he left unverbalized,

Froze Cauda, now a copy of his wife's

Inanimate physique. That she was life's

Container still was evident from how

She rolled her earnest eyes to him, her brow,

That very instant, worry-lined again

As it had been throughout the Lord's campaign.

Although he wore a hurt-dog look, he knew

That she was wise. But how to leave she who

Was his support and mother of his joy?

He vacillated lavishly, the boy

Still in his arms, between the window, their

Escape hatch, and Sophia—with despair

Felt and revealed with either choice he dwelt

Upon. —Go, she said, as a blow was dealt

Against the door, one altogether weak

But ringing with suspense, enough to pique

One into flinching, for a stronger strike

To sound and jostle their protection, like

Their thumping hearts. —Go, or we all will die.

Resignedly he laid the child by

His wife upon their bed, while he, without

A sound, unlocked the window. As a stout

Blow thundered, she undid the clasp behind

Her neck, then locked it once more when it lined

Her infant's throat. Her hand, as if placed there

To swear on oath, was hovering mid-air

Before the chained blue opal, resting on

Her child's heart. She told him, looking wan

And speaking weakly, —This will be your star,

Your conscious, your confessor. I will be

In it, forever with you here and nowhere else,

Forever guiding, aiding, loving you—

Look for me there, when you're in need of me.

She kissed his lolling head, then, tenderly—

And froze in that inclining pose of prayer.

The top door-hinges splinter off from their

Support as soon her lips left her son's

Flesh. Like a peace-lover, before the guns

Begin their thundering, puts space between

Himself and war, so Cauda Nor. Unseen

By Rilla, he flew through the opened pane

With Skaios, as serene as if he lain

Within his crib, enveloped in his arms.

The door crashed roughly with the might that harms

Who ever is nearby—it failed to shake

Sophia's catatonia, though. Its wake

Brought Rilla, storming in to seize her by

Her throat. He forced her, chair and all—as spry

As his sore wound permitted—to the floor.

No matter how ferociously he bore

His thumbs into her windpipe, she still moved

As limberly as water, loose, unmoved

Completely by his murderous intent.

Incredulous, with all the might he spent,

That she had not succumbed, he turned her neck

To catch the fire's borrowed light and check

Her vitals signs—to see his victory

Reflected in her eyes, he hoped. What he

Was greeted with instead were two blank spheres

Like milky moons, in which he saw his fears

Cast back—and nothing else. In time, he ripped

His eyes away to where the husband slipped

From custody into an alleyway.

He hauled is captive, who did not betray

A hint of animation, to the sill

And listened, neither making out an ill

Attempt to bate one's breath while lying low

Close by nor thuds that running feet bestow

Upon the road as one flees at a space.

He yielded to that prey who won the chase.

_Was there a bastard with him too?_ he thought,

Then grinned, for he had gained the prize he sought,

Whom he now heaved to wear her like a stole

As he limped onward, with the temple as his goal.


End file.
